A Hogswatch Carol
by Merlin Missy
Summary: There's a murder in Ankh Morpork on the longest night of the year.


A Hogswatch Carol  
a story of Discworld  
by Merlin Missy  
Copyright 2003, 2006  
PG

Disclaimer: All characters and locations are copyrighted to Terry and Lyn  
Pratchett. No infringement is intended or should be inferred. No  
animals, werewolves, dwarfs, trolls or Igors were harmed in the creation  
of this story. Written for Starfish, in the "While We Tell of Yuletide Treasures"  
Obscure Fandom Secret Santa project. With thanks to Astrogirl for the  
beta.

Note: Originally posted December 2003. Posting here for completion.

* * *

The night air was cold and crisp. Myrtle pulled her shawl tighter around  
her shoulders, stamped her feet on a small part of the cobblestone street  
not covered with grey slush. Hogswatchnight was notoriously bad for  
business in her line of work, but there was always someone wanting a bit  
of holiday comfort after the parties ended, and like many of  
Ankh-Morpork's entrepreneurial citizens, Myrtle knew a niche when she  
saw one. 

Not that she could see much else, she thought. Her eyes had gotten worse  
over the past several years, and despite the high moon tonight, she could  
just about see to the end of the street. She did what she could to live, but  
the thing about living was that the longer she did it, the less she enjoyed  
it. Her bones ached in the cold these nights, and while the alchemists'  
dyes might keep her hair dark, nothing hid the wrinkles. While it was  
true that with age came experience, something highly prized in her  
profession by the more thoughtful customers, those who sought it out  
preferred a higher class of woman than Myrtle had ever been.

So she waited, hoping the after midnight crowd would provide enough for  
her rent this week, and thinking longingly of the warm bed back in her  
lodgings, when she saw the two men stumbling over the Brass Bridge.

Gathering her skirts and quickly rearranging the line of her bosom, Myrtle  
wandered towards them, a smile on her face she recalled as being more  
coquettish than it actually was.

"Good evening, gents!" she called out. "Fancy a bit of ... "

One of the men tumbled over the bridge and landed on the Ankh with a  
soft thump. The other turned around, and walked purposefully towards  
her.

Myrtle began backing away slowly. "Your friend there seems to lost his  
footing," she said crazily.

The man said nothing, kept coming closer. Myrtle could just about make  
out his face now. Something glimmered in his hand in the moonlight.

The other thing about living is that it was a habit no one wanted to break.  
Myrtle turned to run.

* * *

A sad, crumpled thing lay on the cobblestones. Myrtle stood up,  
attempted to brush herself off, and noticed that she had managed not to  
get any slush on her clothes. 

"Well that was lucky," she said, and then paused, confused. Something  
had happened, something about a man with a knife, and now ...

"What just happened?"

PERHAPS I CAN BE OF SOME ASSISTANCE?

Myrtle turned, and saw a seven-foot-tall skeleton standing next to her,  
slipping an hourglass into his robe. She looked down at the thing at her  
feet. "Oh."

YES.

"But I don't feel dead."

AND YOUR POINT OF REFERENCE WOULD BE?

Already she was noticing changes. Her vision, for example, had  
improved remarkably. She could now see all the way to the end of the  
Brass Bridge, where a figure was running quickly in the other direction.  
Her hearing had also improved; she heard the faint "gloop" as the Ankh  
closed in over the knife. In a few minutes, the surface would settle  
enough to hide both that and the body of her fellow victim.

Sudden indignation struck her. "My body wasn't good enough to  
dump!"

I DON'T BELIEVE THAT WAS THE CASE.

Death nodded towards the other end of the street, where a watchman was  
running their way, outpaced by a loping dog.

"Stop in the name of the law!" shouted the man to her fleeing attacker.  
He and dog, a Klatchian wolfhound by the look of it, paused at her body.  
He nodded to the dog, which took off again in pursuit.

The copper bent down to Myrtle's body, looking for a pulse.

"Oh, it's you, Captain Carrot. I didn't get a good look at him, but I think  
I could ... "

He ignored her. She waved her hand in front of his face. "Helloooo ... "

Captain Carrot stood up and sighted a nearby clacks tower. He pulled out  
two paddles and performed a stiff kind of dance.

Death made a half-bow and indicated a direction away from the scene.

WE SHOULD BE GOING.

"Going where?"

THAT IS UP TO YOU.

"I'd like to stay here, thanks. I want to find the man who just killed me."

Death rested against his scythe. Could an animated skull show  
expression, his would exemplify the phrase "heard this before."

THE LIVING RARELY APPRECIATE IT WHEN THE DECEASED  
TAKE AN ACTIVE INTEREST IN THEIR OWN MURDER  
INVESTIGATIONS. TRUST ME.

"I don't care. I'm staying right here."

AS YOU WISH. HOWEVER, AS YOU DO NOT HAVE THE  
ECTOPLASMIC ENERGY NECESSARY TO BECOME A GHOST,  
YOUR SPIRIT FORCE WILL DISSIPATE SHORTLY AFTER I  
DEPART.

He tried a new tack.

IS THERE PERHAPS AN AFTERLIFE YOU'RE ANTICIPATING?

Myrtle thought back to her childhood. Her father had pontificated often  
on the rewards Zeeagler visited on the virtuous. As she recalled, Zeeagler  
had a less than open mind regarding monetary negotiations of affection.  
Her father had iterated the punishments Zeeagler visited upon the wicked,  
and for the first time in over forty years, Myrtle was worried. "No. No  
place I'm supposed to be, thanks."

But the jolt to her memory stirred something else her father had  
mentioned.

THEN I'LL BE GOING.

Myrtle bent down. A spectral version of her bag sat at her feet. She  
reached in and removed something. Now how did that go?

In a rusty accent, Myrtle said a few words in an old dialect and clicked  
something onto Death's bony wrist, clicking the other end around her  
own.

Death stared.

EXCUSE ME?

"I want to stay here until they catch the man who killed me. If you go  
away, so will I. So you need to stay here, too."

Two watchmen, a troll and a dwarf, turned the corner and approached  
Captain Carrot. They began discussion over Myrtle's body, forcing her to  
stand back a bit and drag Death with her. To her mild surprise, the  
ghostly manacles held. The dwarf began taking iconographs of her  
corpse as the troll slowly drew a chalk line around it.

"Do you know her name?" asked the dwarf.

"Myrtle Miggs," said Captain Carrot promptly. "She was a ... ah ...  
seamstress."

"Oh." The dwarf continued working, although the troll stopped.

"Won't der Agony Aunts have something to say 'bout dis?"

"Probably," agreed Carrot. "But for now, we'll handle it like a normal  
homicide." Under his breath, he added, "And for the sake of whoever did  
this, hope we find him first."

Death tugged at the manacles.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"It's a binding my father taught me. He was the High Priest of Zeeagler  
back in our tribe before we moved to Ankh-Morpork."

Death paused in thought.

TALL FELLOW, BIT OF A SQUINT?

Myrtle nodded. "You remember him?"

I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. I AM EVERYWHERE. I SHOULD  
NOT BE HERE. DEATH WILL NEED TO CONTINUE ACROSS THE  
DISC.

"I won't hold you long. I promise."

Captain Carrot said, "Sergeant Angua is pursuing the suspect. If the two  
of you have the scene contained, I'll join her."

"We'll take it from here," said the dwarf, rolling Myrtle's body over and  
examining the wound. "I'd like to call Igor in on this. Maybe he can help  
identify the weapon used."

"Fine. But please make sure you contact the next of kin before he does  
anything else to the body. Mr. Winston-Scott's family sent a letter of  
complaint to the Patrician with a list of missing parts. Ask Mrs. Palm."  
And he was off. The other two watchmen returned to their work.

Death stared more closely at the binding on his wrist.

WHY DO YOU HAVE MANACLES IN YOUR PURSE?

"Professional reasons," she replied.

I SEE, said Death, although it was apparent he did not.

BUT WHY ARE THEY PINK?

* * *

Carrot set off in the direction Angua had gone. He didn't hold out hope  
of tracking her himself, but he knew she'd call if she needed him. Closer  
was better when a suspect stood flat against a wall, begging to be  
arrested. 

There was a familiar "Yelp!" Carrot followed the sound, quickening his  
pace. That wasn't a sound he liked to hear. Sure enough, as he turned  
another corner, Angua lay on the pavement pawing and scratching at her  
nose. The pungent smell of vinegar filled the street, no doubt emanating  
from the small, broken bottle in the gutter. Carrot held his breath as he  
gathered a handful of slush and covered the bottle over with snow.

"Did you see where he went?"

Angua stopped scratching and, with a whine, nodded her head towards an  
alleyway. The bright moonlight cast it into a dark shadow. Carrot drew  
his sword.

The alley was empty, as he'd expected, and dumped onto a large, busy  
street. The suspect was long gone, and the noise from half a dozen  
Hogswatch parties, both inside and spilling outside, covered whatever  
sounds his departing footsteps might have made. A glance at the partiers  
told him no one would remember seeing a man running past, and the man  
was bright enough to have already stopped running and mingle.

Carrot asked anyway. He'd been correct.

Back in the alley, nothing had been conveniently left among the rubbish  
to indicate the identity of the suspect. Not that he would have necessarily  
trusted any Clues, he thought, but it would have been nice if the fellow  
had left _something_ to indicate who he was or why he'd done it.

There was a soft noise at his feet, not quite a growl. Carrot noted that the  
high walls to either side blocked out the moon. Not well, not for long,  
but perhaps long enough if a morphologically-gifted someone needed to  
tell him something. With a nod, he pulled a much-folded thin tunic from  
a pouch at his belt, held it out on his arm, and turned away.

A few moments later, the tunic was taken with a muffled "Thanks." He  
counted ten slowly, then turned. Angua ran her fingers through her hair  
to unknot the tangles caused by her change.

"It was that concentrated vinegar the alchemists use. Bastard."

"Are you all right?"

"I will be. Let me think a moment." She had explained to him that right  
after a change from four legs to two, it took time for her brain to catch up.

"I've got him. No face, but definitely a smell I'll remember."

"That bad?"

"No. That good. He's bathed recently. Good soap, lightly scented. And  
his clothes were new. I can't make out the dye, but it's fresh."

"Anything else?"

"There was tobacco lingering. Cigar smoke, a few hours old. Was there  
a receipt with the body?"

"No." Myrtle hadn't been important enough to warrant an Assassin's fee,  
and they never worked unpaid.

Angua nodded to herself. "The soap was good, but not that good. I think  
we're looking for someone who isn't quite gentry, but would like to be."

Carrot sighed. That reduced their suspect list from the entire population  
of Ankh-Morpork to a quarter or so of it.

Angua rubbed at her nose again. "I won't be able to track him or anyone  
else for a while."

"We'll go back," said Carrot. "Maybe Corporal Littlebottom has a lead."

* * *

"He was about this tall," said Myrtle to the curiously scarred young man  
who had joined the dwarf and the troll. 

THEY CAN'T HEAR YOU.

"He was about this tall!" Myrtle shouted. The watchmen continued to  
ignore her, well, the her she thought of as her, and examined the her that  
she used to think of as her.

"I'm getting a headache," she said. "Or I think I should be getting one."

TECHNICALLY, YOU NO LONGER HAVE A HEAD.

"You're very unhelpful."

Death held up his arm, indicating the manacle.

I PROVIDE ONLY ONE HELP, AND YOU ARE PREVENTING ME  
FROM OFFERING THAT.

"It won't be long," Myrtle said, more to herself than him. "Oh, here they  
are."

Sure enough, two familiar figures came down the street. With some  
pride, Myrtle noted how the dwarf and troll watchmen took a respectful  
step back from her corpse. The young man continued at his work until  
the troll, with surprising gentleness, tugged on his arm.

"Dat can wait a minute."

"Hello, ladies," said the dwarf. "I'm afraid we have one of your  
acquaintances."

Dotsie got there first and clucked. "That's our Myrtle. Poor dear."

"Do you know who did it?" asked Sadie.

"I do!" Myrtle said. "He was about this tall, and he dumped some other  
poor sod in the Ankh."

"We'll take it from here," said Dotsie, bending down to gather Myrtle's  
skirts.

"They can't hear me, either?"

NO.

There was a hurried conversation between the dwarf and the young man.

"Pardon me, ma'am," said the young man. "I need to ecthamine the  
body."

"I don't think so," said Sadie. Her bag bulged ominously.

"This is Constable Igor," said the dwarf. "He and I might be able to  
determine who did this if we can just have a chance to look a bit more at  
her wound."

Sadie pursed her lips and reached toward her bag, but Dotsie stopped her.

"How?"

The dwarf said, "If we look at the wound, we can find out what kind of  
knife was used, and maybe who owned the knife."

"I know who owned the knife!" Myrtle exclaimed. She paused. "Well, I  
know what he looked like."

Dotsie asked, "Will you be there, dearie? With her?"

The dwarf nodded. Dearie? Myrtle cast her newly-gained vision on the  
dwarf and noticed that beneath the beard and helmet, there was also a  
skirt. Ah. One of the new dwarf girls that were showing up these days.  
A woman would be present during the examination by the scarred young  
watchman. She approved. It was an odd thing among the seamstresses,  
but what privacy they never quite seemed to earn during life, the others  
demanded for them after death. That was one sleep that ought not be  
disturbed, they all agreed. So there would be a lady present to make sure  
things were done properly.

"Just give us a name when you're through," Dotsie said.

Igor started, " I don't think Commander Vimes will ... "

"He'll understand," interrupted the dwarf. "We'll let you know."

Dotsie nodded her thanks and took her protesting sister's arm. "Come  
along, then. We'll be by the Watchhouse to retrieve her later."

"But ... "

"They're using Science, dear. It's all right. And we can look into things  
on our own"

"What's Science?" asked Myrtle as the Aunts walked away.

IT IS THE USE OF STEPWISE METHODOLOGY TO STUDY  
THINGS AND EVENTS.

At her blank look, he amended:

IT'S LIKE MAGIC, ONLY SLOWER.

"Ah."

* * *

Myrtle learned more about Science back at Pseudopolis Yard. For  
example, Science involved Constable Igor prodding her corpse and then  
carefully removing wobbly bits from what used to be her chest. The  
dwarf, whose name was Littlebottom, had carefully examined under  
Myrtle's fingernails and all over her shawl for Clues, which she collected  
and then did Science on in a corner of the room. She had promised the  
Aunts to be present, after all. 

As Igor examined a particularly wobbly red-and-blue part, Captain Carrot  
came in. To his credit, his face only turned slightly green upon seeing the  
autopsy. "Have either of you found anything?"

"Not yet," said Littlebottom. "The killer wasn't considerate enough to  
leave anything behind."

"I believe I have thomething, sir." Igor placed the red-and-blue wobbly  
bit on a small metal table. "Thee this?" He pointed to a place that looked  
sliced.

"Yes?"

"Notithe the double-slice? It'th indicative of a certain kind of blade.  
Klatchian-made."

Even incorporeal, Myrtle stepped back from Igor as he spoke.  
Nevertheless she leaned in to see what he meant.

"Can you give me a specific kind of knife?"

"I think tho." He called Littlebottom closer, and then carefully pulled  
open just the part of Myrtle's shawls necessary to see the entry wound.  
"Do you see the mark at the entranthe? That's the guard. It's an  
Al-Kreag. I'm thure of it."

"Good work, Constable. So who would own one of these knives?"

"Oh, about a thouthand people in the thity. They're very popular."

Myrtle watched Carrot deflate. "Is there anything else?"

"She wasn't robbed," said Littlebottom. "At least, not of her money.  
And I don't think she would have had anything else on her of value."

Carrot reddened. "Was she otherwise ... "

"She wasn't hurt," Littlebottom said. "Except for being killed, of  
course."

"She wasn't robbed or otherwise assaulted," Carrot reiterated. "So what  
was the motive?"

Myrtle said, "I think he was angry I saw that other fellow getting dumped  
in the Ankh. If we knew who he was, we might know who the killer  
was."

YOU MEAN THE HON. JOHN J. NUTTLEY?

"Who?"

THE MAN WHO WAS DROPPED IN THE ANKH BEFORE YOU  
DIED.

"You knew him?" Death stared at her. "Oh. Right. You knew who he  
was all along?"

YES. WE'D MET A FEW MINUTES BEFORE.

"And where's he now?"

WHEREVER HE THINKS HE OUGHT TO BE.

There was a finality in his already sepulchral voice that would have sent  
shivers down Myrtle's spine, were it not currently being examined by Igor  
on the table.

"I need to tell them his name."

THAT IS NOT AN OPTION.

Death's voice changed again, became less formal.

YOU SHOULD TRUST IN THE LIVING TO DO THEIR JOBS. IF  
THEY ARE MEANT TO FIND HIM, THEY WILL. EITHER WAY,  
YOU SHOULDN'T CONCERN YOURSELF WITH IT.

"I have to." Thoughts of Zeeagler's dark realm prodded at her until she  
pushed them away. "Is there anyone I can talk to? Besides you?"

CLOSE RELATIVES. CATS. THE PSYCHICALLY INCLINED.

Her relatives were all dead, and while she did keep a cat, she doubted he  
would be of much use as a witness. "I need someone psychic. A witch or  
wizard, maybe."

IT'S HOGSWATCH.

Witches and wizards didn't go out on Hogswatch. But she could go to  
them.

Myrtle grabbed Death by the wrist. "Come on."

* * *

She was getting used to this incorporeal business. For someone who'd  
made a living using her body, she found it rather comforting to be free of  
the thing. In a way, her murderer had done her a favour. Myrtle and  
Death walked right through the gates of Unseen University without  
pausing and began looking for a convenient wizard. 

As luck would have it, most of them seemed to be gathered in a large  
hall, having a celebration. Death stopped her before they went in.

I DON'T THINK ANYONE THERE WILL BE HAPPY TO SEE ME.

"You're probably right." Just then, a wizard exited the room, tipping  
slightly as he walked. Only after the door had closed behind him did he  
notice Death, let out what would have been a scream but came out a loud  
burp, and fell to the floor.

I'M NOT HERE FOR YOU.

The wizard opened his mouth, then closed it. "Good?" he finally piped.

"Can you hear me?" Myrtle demanded.

The wizard stuck his finger in his ear and shook it. "What was that?"

Myrtle moved her face right in front of his. "Can you hear me!"

The wizard jumped. "You didn't have to shout."

"You _can_ hear me!"

"Yes?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"Um. And you are?"

"Myrtle Miggs. I was murdered earlier tonight, and I need you to tell the  
Watch why."

The wizard started crawling backward on the floor. "Oh no. I'm not  
getting involved with this. I know how it goes. I'll go to the Watch and  
tell them what you want, there will be a humourous misunderstanding,  
and I'll end up being hunted by the same murderer and running for my  
life through Nothingfjord!"

"But I need your help!"

I TOLD YOU.

"What are you doing involved in this?" the wizard asked of Death. "I  
thought you were strictly a come-and-go man. Person. Um."

ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION.

"That. Thank you."

Death held up his wrist.

I WAS PERSUADED.

"Pink?"

"I like pink," said Myrtle with a sniff.

"You chained Death?"

IT IS TEMPORARY. THE SOONER WE RESOLVE THIS ISSUE,  
THE SOONER I CAN GO BACK TO MY DUTIES.

"I don't want to do this," said the wizard.

THEN THINK OF IT AS EARNING MY THANKS.

"You mean," said the wizard, thinking fast, "You mean you would owe  
me a favour?"

NO.

"Ah. So my incentive is ... ?"

I BELIEVE YOU WOULD PREFER MY THANKS TO MY  
DISPLEASURE.

The wizard stared at Death, but Death had never lost a staring contest.

"All right. But must it be tonight? I'm supposed to stay in at Hogswatch.  
It's tradition."

I AM NOT CERTAIN I CAN WAIT THE REST OF THE NIGHT. THE  
DUTY CALLS.

"I could go with you," said Myrtle.

WHAT?

"What?"

"On your ... rounds. I could go with you. Just for tonight. Tomorrow,  
we can come here, get this fellow, and go tell the Watch the name of the  
man who was killed, and maybe then they'll know who killed me."

THIS IS ILL-ADVISED.

"Or we could stay here all night."

DO YOU KNOW HOW TO RIDE A HORSE?

* * *

Let the camera of the mind pull back. No, further. No, _really_ further.  
There. Picture a world as large as, well, a world, and flat as a certain  
breakfast food. The world is on the back of four elephants. The  
elephants are on the back of the largest turtle the mind's eye has ever  
seen. Flying over and across this strange world is a sleigh hacked out of  
logs, being pulled by four boars dripping with foam and sweat. 

But the mind's eye doesn't care about that.

The eye instead should focus on a large white horse, ridden by a  
seven-foot-tall berobed skeleton and a ghost of negotiable affection.

Hogswatchnight is traditionally the night that the Hogfather delivers gifts  
and pork products to deserving girls and boys. With the sheer number of  
children this entails, for one anthropomorphic personification to reach  
every home of every child in one night, that night would have to last far  
longer than a normal night. Aside from the fact that Hogswatch is the  
longest night on the Disc, for the supernaturally-minded, it can last up to  
several weeks.

Picture then a night that goes on and on, a being who is unhuman but  
brings the last kindness any human or other living creature will ever  
know, and with him for this extended darkness a spirit whose presence  
confuses the other dead souls, if just for a brief time. Picture a journey  
that extends from the Ramtops to the mysterious Counterweight  
Continent and back again.

Picture ...

Morning.

* * *

"This is extraordinary," she said, as light sloshed gently over the  
landscape. 

NO. EXTRAORDINARY WOULD BY DEFINITION IMPLY  
SOMETHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY. THIS HAPPENS EVERY  
DAY.

And, because Death was innately honest, he added:

NORMALLY.

"But it's so ... If people could just see this, they'd see ... " She struggled  
for words. "Things would be different if everyone could see this, just  
once."

A SUNRISE IS AVAILABLE FOR VIEWING MOST MORNINGS  
WHEN IT IS NOT OVERCAST, SAVE FOR CERTAIN OF THE  
UNDEAD.

"You know what I mean." Comprehension moved across her face. "You  
_do_ know what I mean. I can tell."

I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TRYING TO SAY. AND YOU ARE  
WRONG. MORTALS GO THROUGH LIFE BLITHELY UNAWARE  
OF WHAT, IN OTHER CONTEXT, WOULD BE CONSIDERED  
MIRACULOUS.

"That's not true! I ... I always get a sense of wonder when I see a  
butterfly!"

Death reflected on the potential lifespan of a butterfly in Ankh-Morpork,  
and conceded the miracle.

WHAT SENSE DO YOU HAVE WHEN YOU SEE A COCKROACH?

Myrtle shuddered.

THE SAME MIRACLES OF BIRTH AND TRANSFORMATION  
HAPPEN FOR BOTH. YOU CELEBRATE ONE AND IGNORE THE  
OTHER.

Death indicated the growing day.

WERE I TO BRING TEN OTHER HUMANS UP HERE, THREE  
WOULD COMPLAIN THAT THE COLORS WERE WRONG, AND  
TWO WOULD COMPLAIN THEY WERE COLD. EVEN THOSE  
WHO DID ENJOY THE VIEW WOULD GO HOME AND LIVE THE  
SAME LIVES THEY DID BEFORE.

"You're very cynical."

NO. I AM HONEST.

"Hasn't anything ever touched you or moved you?" In her eyes were the  
memories of tears. "Just once, haven't you looked at something and  
thought, 'Maybe this could change the world?'"

Death's perfect memory reminded him. There had been an accident, and  
a small child left alone to die, and he had gathered her in his cloak and  
carried her home without ever knowing why.

ONCE.

The answer seemed to satisfy her. She turned her attention back to the  
morning. "Do you know what happens to me next?"

NO. YOU WILL GO WHERE YOU BELIEVE YOU SHOULD BE.

He did not travel with the spirits to their destination, could only speculate  
where each finally ended. Another memory: a broken, burning carriage,  
and the knowledge that no matter where the souls within had fled, he  
could never follow, not even after the last stars burned out. He had but  
one link to them left now, and he had not spoken with her since ...

"I don't want to go where I think I belong," Myrtle said quietly, derailing  
his thoughts.

BELONG SOMEWHERE ELSE, THEN. BARBARIAN HEROES  
HAVE A PARTICULARLY INTERESTING AFTERLIFE, WITH  
FEASTING AND QUAFFING AND SUCH. GOOD KLATCHIANS  
GO TO A GARDEN PARADISE FILLED WITH NUBILE YOUNG  
WOMEN.

"Men."

EXCUSE ME?

"Men have those afterlives. I imagine the women get to scrub the floor  
after the men are through quaffing. Or get to be the nubby young  
women for the men to enjoy. I've had enough of that."

IS THERE SOMEWHERE YOU'D PREFER?

"Nowhere. I'd prefer to be nowhere, and nothing, and just sleep without  
dreams."

THEN BELIEVE THAT'S WHAT YOU DESERVE.

"That's all it takes? But that's so simple."

Death shrugged.

I DID NOT MAKE THE RULES.

She stood. "Then that's what I'll believe. Can we go find that wizard  
now?"

YES.

* * *

" ... John J. Nuttley. You should be able to dredge him up not far from  
the Brass Bridge, along with the knife that killed him and Miss Miggs." 

Safely behind the desk, Fred Colon wrote this all down in a painstakingly  
slow and shaky hand. The wizard, whom Fred had seen now and then at  
the Drum and was even now sounding a bit drunk, swore Death was  
standing there beside him. Fred couldn't get past the idea that someone  
very cold was looking over his shoulder.

"And the witness's name is?"

"Myrtle Miggs," said the wizard after a pause. "The deceased."

"This is highly irregular, taking down a statement from a dead person,"  
Colon said, then glanced around the room. Fortunately, Reg was out on  
his beat. He didn't need a lecture today about dead rights. "Irregular," he  
repeated.

"Just look for the body," said the wizard. Another pause. "And tell  
Littlebottom and Igor to do Science on him."

"_Corporal_ Littlebottom and _Constable_ Igor will," Colon said. "How  
do you know Igor? He doesn't come out much."

"Miss Miggs likes him. Says he very polite. Can I go, please?"

"I suppose. I'll need your name."

But the wizard wasn't looking at him. At some sign that Fred didn't see,  
and didn't want to see, the wizard muttered, "You're welcome," and beat  
a hasty retreat out of the Watchhouse.

Strange fellow, thought Fred. The cold feeling went away as he gathered  
his notes to take up to Mister Vimes. Death was getting personally  
involved in a murder? Hopefully he wasn't going to make it a habit.

* * *

"They're going to catch him now, aren't they?" 

NO.

"What? But, we told them the name of the other victim and where to find  
him. They should be able to find the murderer from there."

THEY WILL NOT.

"So I've held you here for nothing."

PERHAPS.

Death patted his horse, but did not mount him. Instead, he wandered off  
through the crowd. Myrtle had no choice but to follow.

"Where are we going now?"

YOU SAID YOU WERE COMING ALONG WITH ME FOR THE  
DUTY. I HAVE ONE MORE TO PERFORM WHILE WE ARE HERE.

"Oh."

Myrtle recognized the path they took through the streets, although she  
rarely came to this part of the city. It was by no means Scoone Avenue,  
but it was a nice area. Death led her up to a house she didn't recognize.  
Myrtle had never learned to read, but she saw the letters "Nuttley" on the  
front door just before they went inside.

WAIT HERE, said Death, and to her shock, slipped easily out of the  
manacle on his wrist. She waited in the front hall while the horse nuzzled  
some fruit in a bowl by the door. A few moments later, Dotsie and Sadie  
walked past her, seeing neither Myrtle nor Binky as they left the house.

Death returned alone.

The first thing she could think of to say was: "You could have slipped  
away at any time!"

I COULD.

"Then why didn't you?"

I LIKED YOUR FATHER.

"That's not a reason." Death shrugged. He did that a lot, she'd noticed.  
"What now?"

WHATEVER YOU BELIEVE. I CANNOT CHOOSE FOR YOU.

She nodded. "Thank you." On an impulse, she tiptoed up and kissed him  
on the bony cheek. "I think I need some sleep." She left him there,  
wandered into what appeared to be the parlour, and lay down. Myrtle  
closed what she remembered to be her eyes.

There were no dreams.

* * *

Every afternoon for the past three years, Susan had ended her day by  
checking the small desks in front of her for forgotten pencils and bags,  
then checking on the contents of the supply cupboard before returning to  
her own desk to plan for the following day's activities. These days she  
was highly aware of time, so to speak: from her desk and back again, it  
took no longer than three minutes, and today, when she'd simply read  
selections from Tacticus to her post-Hogswatch antsy students, it had  
taken no more than one. She was certain of it. 

As she returned to her desk, she saw a folded piece of paper waiting for  
her, a sprinkling of snow atop it not yet starting to melt.

* * *

The End 


End file.
